Chapter 24

24

T he clash of steel rang out across the loch, echoing the past. Lewis had plucked a sword from the tangle of foliage around his peat dwelling, unseen by Doughall’s eyes in the darkness and the camouflage. More to the point, Lewis was no green squire without the faintest notion of how to wield it.

“That’s the plan, eh?” he rasped, swinging his blade upward.

Doughall sidestepped the blow, oblivious to the dirk in Lewis’s other hand. Even so, he barely felt the blade slicing his arm as he leaped forward and swung his broadsword with all his might. Lewis yelped and ducked, a clump of auburn hair falling from his head. A moment later and he would have lost his head entirely.

“Despite yer best efforts, aye,” Doughall growled, kicking him hard in the chest while he was already off-balance.

Lewis toppled backward, hitting the ground with a thud. Considering the bastard’s size, Doughall had assumed that he would rely more on brute strength than agility, but Lewis was surprisingly nimble, up on his feet again in what seemed like an instant.

“A pity that nae one of ye will survive to the weddin’. First, I’ll kill ye. Then, I’ll kill her.” Lewis smirked. “Might get the rest of ‘em, after all, then go back to Orkney to live out the rest of me days in peace.”

Doughall lunged and swung again, slicing Lewis’s thigh. As the man stumbled backward, his eyes flashing with pain and fury, he hurled his dirk in Doughall’s direction. If it struck him, Doughall did not feel it. He marched forward, spurred on by the heat of his anger.

Clutching his thigh, wielding his broadsword with a clumsier hand, Lewis flashed him a crooked grin. “Is this nae where yer ma and da died?” He laughed darkly. “Nice of ye to want to join ‘em in the same spot.”

At that moment, Doughall was a boy again, standing in the shadows of the forest as his father fell to the shingles with a sickening thump, never to rise again, and his mother yelled for him to run. He could hear her voice so clearly that he almost turned to find her, his heart almost beating out of his chest at the thought that she had somehow come back to him.

The awkward slash of a blade brought him back to his senses, back to what, who was important: Freya. Someone he could and would protect with everything he had.

“She’ll rain chaos down on ye too,” Lewis wheezed. “I’d have done ye a favor, sparin’ ye the trouble of marryin’ into such a family, if ye hadnae intervened that night. I’d have smashed that lass’s head on the rocks, then ridden after her braither, her sister-in-law, and finally?—”

Doughall struck, whirling through the air, his sword an extension of himself. That cold calm had flooded his veins once more, put there by the strength of holding Freya firmly and singularly in his thoughts, imagining the feeling of returning to her bedchamber with news that she was safe at last.

The two halves of Lewis Brown slid sideways, the last of Stewart’s men soaking the earth with his blood, paying the ultimate price for laying a hand on the Devil’s bride.

Freya had not moved from the center of the bed, though her back ached and she was in dire need of something to drink. To her, it was the only way to ensure that Doughall would return, like a spell—if she did not disobey his order, he would be safe.

She did not know how many hours had passed, but all had been silent in the hallway outside her bedchamber. The occasional footstep heightened her anxiety while simultaneously reassuring her that the guards, and Ersie, were posted outside her chamber, protecting her.

“Stand aside!” a gruff, familiar voice bellowed, jolting her out of her trance.

“M’Laird, ye need to see the healer!” Ersie protested, two sets of footsteps thudding toward the bedchamber door. “M’Laird!”

A key scraped in the lock, the door bursting open to reveal Doughall, filthy and bloodied, his shirt torn. His fierce gaze landed on Freya, her heart jumping as he closed the door behind him, shutting it on the guards who had watched over her silently, and Ersie, who kept muttering, “Ye need to see the bloody healer first.”

Forgoing the promise she had made, Freya leaped from the bed and ran to him. She halted half a step away from him, trembling with uncertainty. Would she hurt him if she touched him? Was she allowed to touch him? There was so much blood, but it did not bother her so much as worry her.

“What happened?” she asked, deciding that she did not care if he scolded her or threatened to ‘punish’ her.

She moved away from him, fetching the basin of cold water from the stand on the far side of the room. She brought cloths too—all that she had—so she could clean away the dirt and blood before she sent him off to the healer.

“What did ye come here first for?” she mumbled, clicking her tongue. “Sit down over there, by the fire.”

His brow creased as if he was about to refuse.

“Ye’re drippin’ all over the floor,” she added before he could speak. “Might as well have ye drippin’ in one place.”

With a grunt, he did as he was asked, padding over to the armchair by the fireplace. To her surprise, he took a blanket and laid it over the armchair before sitting down.

Taking a shaky breath, Freya went to him. She kneeled before him and set the basin down, soaking a cloth in the cooling water. As she met his gaze, there was something in his eyes that she had not seen before. A warmth, a relief that seeped into her chest, helping her breathe more easily.

“I take it this was Lewis’ doin’?” she asked, not knowing if she would receive an answer.

He nodded, hissing through his teeth as she pressed the cloth to the wound that appeared to be bleeding the most—a relatively small but deep gash in his shoulder.

“Ye were a fool to go after him alone,” she muttered, the water turning pink as she left the cloth in the basin.

Gingerly, she reached for Doughall’s shirt, easing it out of the belt that held his folded plaid in place. Aware that her cheeks were flushed, waiting for the moment he would stop her, she lifted the fabric up and up, revealing the defined lines of hardened muscle.

He was spectacular, even in his injured state. She doubted she had ever seen a body so… enthralling in all her life. Though, in fairness, the only men she had seen in a state of undress were the ones in her imagination. And he might as well have been conjured from her fantasies, his abdomen ridged, his chest broad and muscular, his arms so powerful that she now understood how he had lifted her with no effort whatsoever.

His wounds, ye oaf!

She snapped out of it, retrieving the sodden cloth.

“Did ye hear what I said?” She pressed the cloth to the wound on his shoulder. “Ye shouldnae have gone after him by yerself.”

He rested his fingertips beneath her chin, tilting her head up. “I practically raised an army for ye.”

“What?”

“To search for the bastard,” he replied. “I fought him alone, aye, but I willnae have me bride callin’ me a fool.”

She pressed her lips together, warmth flooding her cheeks.

He raised an army for me… His bride.

Wringing out the cloth to begin cleaning the cut on his left arm, she wondered if this was how Helen of Troy felt. Although, of course, she had not wanted an armada to be sent after her, and the entire debacle had not ended well for anyone. But still…

“Once I’ve sent ye to the healer, I wouldnae mind speakin’ to him,” she said, carefully wiping away the dried blood. “Ye can join me if Sorcha deems ye well enough. Or Ersie can. I willnae speak with him for long—but I doubt I’ll rest tonight if I dinnae find out why he threatened me.”

She shuddered despite the heat from the fireplace, remembering that that beastly bear of a man had been right there in her bedchamber. Not to mention the things he had permitted his two associates to do to her on the shore of Loch Dubh.

Doughall drew his hand back, curling it into a fist. His eyes clouded over, darting to the flames in the grate.

Freya frowned. “Ye did bring him back to see justice done, did ye nae?”

“There was nay need,” he replied gruffly. “He told me why, right before I cut him in two.”

She could not stop the gasp that slipped past her lips. Seeing him like this, wounded and stripped half bare, his touch and looks more gentle than they had been before, it was easy to forget the brutal warrior that he was.

“It was the reason ye thought,” Doughall continued, meeting her gaze once more. His wolfish eyes were flinty. Cold. “Yer words to yer braither got James killed—rightly, aye, but Lewis didnae see it that way. He wanted yer life to make things even.”

“Och…” Freya did her best to concentrate on trailing the cloth over Doughall’s sculpted body, and not on Lewis’s final moments.

“Ye’re nae seriously goin’ to tell me that ye wish the wretch was alive, are ye?” Anger laced Doughall’s voice. “What he was goin’ to do to ye was unforgivable. He got what he deserved.”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “But was that really necessary? Would throwin’ him in the dungeons nae have been more of a punishment?”

“To bring him closer to ye?” Doughall rasped, staring at her incredulously.

She shrugged. “I just… Och, I dinnae ken what I think.” She paused in her cleaning and sat back on her haunches, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “It… reminds me of the first time we stayed here, at yer castle. That’s all.”

“What are ye talkin’ about?”

“Ye didnae see me, but… I was walkin’ back from the kitchens at night,” Freya replied, her nerves jittering. “I heard raised voices, and… I got curious. Ye can tell me I should’ve been in bed—I ken that already—but it doesnae change what I saw. I watched ye beat that poor servant to death, and?—”

Recognition flickered in his gray eyes, his head tilting slightly to the side. “Is that why ye’ve avoided me all these years? Is that why ye kept lookin’ at me like I was the Devil himself?”

“Perhaps, but… what I’ve seen of ye since has given me hope that it’s nae all rage and a bad temper in there,” she replied hastily, pointing toward his heart. “And when we’re wed, I’d like to help ye, so ye’re nae so quick to take yer anger out on others.”

He let out a dark, mirthless laugh. “I dinnae need yer help, Freya. That ‘poor servant’ had attacked a maid in the most despicable way. His death was her justice.” He took a deep breath, his expression becoming eerily calm. “And the man I killed today attacked ye , would’ve let his men do those same despicable things first, and then threatened yer life. I dinnae regret anythin’. He deserved what he got. In truth, I wish I could kill him again for each of his crimes against ye.”

Freya blinked at him in disbelief, ignoring the damp patch that was forming on the skirt of her dress where she was holding the wet cloth. For so many years, she had assumed that what she had witnessed of his brutality was just that—the casual violence of a monstrous devil. Could it be true that he was protecting the honor of a woman?

“Ye’re goin’ to be part of me clan,” he continued. “I do what must be done for those under me stewardship. More than that, ye’re goin’ to be me wife. Nay one threatens me wife and lives. There are nay exceptions.”

“A wife ye never wanted,” she blurted out, too overwhelmed by the revelation to think of anything better to say.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask about the maid whose honor he had defended, and why he allowed everyone to believe he was a devil if he had such… admirable morals, but none of them would rise to the surface. Her throat had constricted around all rational, reasonable words.

He sighed. “But a wife I got anyway, so ye’d better get accustomed to the way I do things.” He leaned forward, taking her chin in his hand. “ This is why I cannae let ye ken where I’m goin’ when I need to take action immediately. Sometimes, even a moment’s delay, a moment’s hesitation, means ye’re too late.”

Perhaps she was imagining things, but she could have sworn his voice faltered for a split second.

“And I couldnae bear bein’ a moment too late to get to ye if ye were in danger,” he added thickly. “So, be a good wife. Ask nothin’ more of me than what I have already offered and given.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Hoped he would kiss her and carry her to her bed, hold her through the night and relieve her of the lingering tension. She longed to feel those arms around her, those lips on hers, his touch on her eager flesh—longed to touch him in return, to ease his troubles as he could ease hers.

So, her heart sank when he got to his feet, left his shirt on the floor, and strode to the door. She watched the rippling muscles in his back, her fingertips desperate to explore every contour, every inch of his warm skin, her heart soaring when he paused.

Stay with me… Dinnae leave… Please…

She willed herself to say the words, but he got there ahead of her.

“I’ll see ye at the weddin’,” he said and turned his back to her once more, leaving her alone, her hopes dashed.